Mad City
by Fairies Masquerade
Summary: "She'd wished him gone a hundred times. Getting her wish would sink her into a world of corruption and murder, though all she wanted was to be the master of her own heart." - 1940's noir AU, no zombies.
1. Prologue: The Diner

_**A/N: **I'm back! Imorca and madcorvus over on tumblr came up with this radical idea of a 1940's noir-style AU for our Walking Dead characters. Somehow, I got dragged into the shenanigans, so here we are. I'll go into more detail with my notes on the first chapter as to what I'm actually doing with this tale. For now, enjoy this itty bitty teaser of a prologue. A taste, if you will, of what's to come. Trust me, it's not going to be what you expect. ;)_

_**Warnings:** Language, violence, gore, death, sex, angst. If you've read any of my other works, you know to expect all of the above. This will be no different._

_**Disclaimer: **The characters are the property of AMC, the basic idea and setting are the brainchild of imorca and madcorvus. Me, I'm just the vessel. I'm still not sure why I'm involved, but it's too late now. Suckers._

* * *

_**1947, Atlanta**_

If there was a more run down diner in the whole of Atlanta, Merle Dixon wasn't sure where it would be. The table was gritty and rough under his hands, splinters threatening to snag on his callused fingers. The tiled floor was dusty, chips and cracks running along every square of the odd diamond pattern. He watched the busty blonde behind the counter as she tossed him a curious eye over her shoulder. Any other day, any other time, he'd return the interest. Not today, though. Today was business for the old man.

He checked his watch; half an hour had passed. Daryl and his crew should have the site cleaned up by now, the body moved, the weapon tossed in the trunk of the car to be safely disposed of at a later time. Soon enough, the foreman would come to open up and find Peletier's body but any evidence that linked this to them would be long cleared. They knew well enough how to work around the cops and stay hidden. Greene was smart; he'd trained them well.

The waitress sauntered over with his coffee, hips sashaying back and forth in a manner that was obviously well rehearsed. Merle recognized a good, old fashioned 'come hither' strut when he saw one, having spent much of his spare time in the dark corners of Andrea Harrison's establishment, but he also recognized the worn, dark circles under her eyes she'd tried to bury under layers of makeup. This dame wanted a fix as well as a bit of fun. Merle sighed as she placed the cup and saucer on the table in front of him.

"Can I getcha anything else?" she asked coyly.

"Not tonight, doll."

"You sure about that?" She reached out and ran her hand down his shoulder. Merle flinched and shrugged her hand off him. _Lousy broad._

"Scram," he ordered.

With a huff, she stalked back to her place behind the counter, 'come hither' walk forgotten in her frustration. Merle chuckled as he watched her snatch up her dirty rag to wipe down the counter yet again from lack of anything else to do. He was the only customer, his presence upon entering enough to send the diner's few patrons scampering out the doors upon his arrival. _Nothing like the reputation of a good henchman to clear a room._ Merle took a swig of the lukewarm, bitter coffee and winced.

"I piss better coffee in the mornings," he muttered. Merle took his flask from his inside coat pocket, taking a moment to rub his thumb along the beaten silver before popping the cap and pouring a generous shot of whiskey into his cup. He took a long pull from the flask before shoving it back into his pocket, letting the whiskey roll around his tongue before swallowing, enjoying the burn as it crept down his throat.

He drummed his fingers on the table, impatient now to get a move on. Where was he? Merle took another drink of his coffee; as it always did, whiskey made everything better. He was half thinking of ordering something to eat despite the risk of food poisoning this place clearly harbored when the flash of lights spilled across his table through the window; a car was turning in to the lot outside. He squinted, waiting; one of the car doors opened and a figure stood out. It took Merle a minute to place him in the dark outside, blinded as he was by the headlights. The figure waved and he caught a flash of sandy hair. _Daryl. Good._

Merle quickly drained his coffee; slapping the empty cup back on its saucer, he stood and jammed his fedora back on his head and dropped several bills on the table, leaving a little extra to make up for his rejection of the blonde honey.

The night was cold as he stepped outside and swished his long coat over his shoulders. Merle glanced at the sky; it was so late it was almost early. Daryl was waiting outside the car, his cigarette already smoked almost to the filter. Merle waved away the cigarette case his brother held out to him, impatient now for news.

"Job's done," Daryl said quickly.

"Anybody see ya?"

"'Course not," Daryl scoffed. "Don't give me any shit."

Merle grinned. Daryl had been working with him for old man Greene for a few years now, rising up in the ranks to become one of the top enforcers faster than anyone else in recent memory. Still, he was Merle's baby brother and so a little shit-giving was required every now and then. Just to keep things in place. Merle nudged Daryl with his elbow, pushing him aside so he could climb into the car. He could hear grumbling as Daryl got in after him but chose to ignore it for the moment, letting the rumble of the engine soothe him as the car pulled out onto the road.

"So what now?"

"Let the cops do their thing," Merle replied. "Then we take the wife to see the old man."

"The wife?" Daryl asked. "What's Greene want with her?"

"Dead or not, Peletier owes a debt," Merle said. "It'll be up to her to settle up now."

Daryl was silent, gnawing on his thumb in a telltale sign that he wasn't happy with the situation but wasn't going to bitch about it. Merle knew that anything involving threatening women was Daryl's weakness, but Daryl knew enough to shut up about it.

"Looks like rain," he said instead. _Smart boy._

"So it does," Merle replied.

Sure enough, the rain started to fall as the car drove into the night, the two men unaware that the growing storm above was just a hint of things to come.


	2. The Detective and Dead Ed

_**A/N:** Hello, party animals! Holy moly, I was not expecting this to take off like it did. You guys are fantastic! imorca has been doing an "I told you so" dance for days. ;)_

_So, lemme 'splain you a few things here: Obviously, this is a 1940's AU for our TWD characters. However, I'm going to be really, really AU with this. A couple eagle eyes readers spotted the reference to "old man Greene" in the prologue. Kudos to you guys! The majority of our characterizations are based off of Seasons 1 & 2. You can blame that on the fact that, as part of my research for this project, I marathoned the early seasons of TWD on Netflix. Huzzah._

_The other thing I'm doing is really mixing up pairings and stereotypes a bit. You'll catch that a lot as we move forward, but there are some hints of that in this chapter. So… expect both the anticipated (because y'all know my OTP) and the unexpected. Mwahaha._

_Reviewers get cookies. I would seriously love your feedback on this, as this is very much outside of my normal wheelhouse. Now, enough from me. To the story!_

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**Chapter 1: The Detective and Dead Ed**

Shane Walsh was not a fan of anything that woke him before dawn. He sat behind the wheel of his car and tried to rub the sleep from his eyes as he drove.

"It is _pissing_ rain," he grumbled. _Talking to yourself. Very nice, asshole_. He usually did this when he was driving. His belligerence and methods had driven yet another partner to beg for a transfer; Leon had switched a week ago and Dale hadn't assigned him a new partner yet. Working his beat solo was just fine with him. Shane didn't play well with others.

Shane pulled into a row of dilapidated storage units that lined the east end of town and came to a stop in front of number 42. There were several other cars scattered in front. The door to the unit stood open and dark silhouettes towered in the flickering orange light from within; Dale already had a crew here. Two young uniforms, their clothes and badges so new and shiny Shane figured they must have graduated from the Academy just yesterday, were marking off the area with tape.

Despite his fedora and trench coat, he found himself soaked by the time he made it from his car to the door, the wind biting at what little skin he had exposed. The rain was coming down in sheets, leaving the buildings and streets slick and shiny. It gave the night a warped sensation as though he was viewing everything through a thick piece of glass. Voices drifted to his ears as he stalked closer to the door and Shane could feel the hum of excitement in the air. _Must be another body._

He stepped through the door, rapping his knuckles on the tin frame to announce his presence. Only one head turned to greet him, the others too entranced with whatever (_whomever_, his mind supplied) lay on the floor before them. Shane nodded at his supervising officer; a quick glance at Dale's eyes told him he was in for a long day ahead.

"Well? Who's the stiff?" he murmured as he came up next to Dale. Shane tilted his fedora back, feeling the water trickle off the back brim of his fedora as he did so. His eyes came to rest on the figure that kept his colleagues attention, letting Dale's low baritone roll over him as the older man rattled off the details.

"ID in his wallet says his name is Edgar Peletier, age 44."

The corpse lay sprawled on the concrete floor, one pudgy arm tucked back behind the head at an awkward angle. The skin was already chalky, lips tinged blue with the unmistakable mark of death.

"Dislocated shoulder. New bruises. The beating's fresh."

The simple work clothes, white button down and black pants, were crumpled and torn. Bruises, dark and purple, bloomed in small patches along the exposed skin. Shane tilted his head, taking in the details. _No finger marks or scratches_. Whoever had done the beating had been careful. Each mark was intentional, planned.

"Cause of death is a bullet to the head."

The slug had left a ragged circle, set low on the forehead, dead center between the eyes. A stream of blood ran down the bridge of the nose, across the fat cheek to dribble into the ground in a small pool. Shane stuck his leg out and used the toe of his shoe to lift and turn the head, ignoring the grumblings of the other officers. The bullet that had left so neat a hole in front had not been as kind upon exit. The back of the head was blown away, blood and bone and brain left to mix in a jumbled soup in what remained of the skull. Shane let the head drop, grimacing as it hit the ground with a wet squish.

"There is no splatter of any kind, no blood or any other matter anywhere else in the room."

"So they dumped him here," Shane muttered.

"Ya think?" Dale grouched. "Didn't have to force the door, either. Likely had the key."

"Who found him?"

"Night watchman," Dale replied. "Bassett is talking to him now." Dale gestured to the far side of the room, where Shane's recent ex-partner was in hushed conversation with the unfortunate security guard. _Poor bastard_. Shane wasn't sure if his sympathy wasn't more for the man having to deal with Bassett, who ranked slightly below a rabid possum in terms of intelligence, than it was for finding the body in the first place.

Shane stepped forward and knelt beside the body, careful to avoid the congealing puddle of blood around the head. He took a pencil from the inner pocket of his coat and reached out to the corpse, running the stubby lead along the jagged edge of the hole.

"Looks like a .45," Shane noted. "Fella had to be shot at pretty close range for the hole to look this neat." He skimmed the pencil down the blood trail, ignoring the glassy grey eyes that stared at nothing, before circling a cluster of bruises clumped along the collarbone, visible just below the open collar of the dead man's shirt. There was more than just precision to these bruises, there was a pattern.

"Brass knuckles," Shane said. "Smart. Son of a bitch didn't wanna leave finger marks on the body."

Shane let his gaze run over the poor sap again. No jacket, pants pockets turned out. Faint lines along the seam showed that this particular pair of trousers had been let out recently, probably to accommodate their owner's swelling girth. The shoes were scuffed and worn but clean. _Too clean_. Shane leaned over to inspect them further. The shoes could have been polished an hour before. He noticed dark spots along the hem of the pants and reached out a cautious finger to dab at one. It was damp, but when he pulled his finger back it didn't come away stained with red as he'd expected. Shane took a quick sniff. _It's just water_.

"They cleaned him up," he said.

"What?"

"Whoever whacked him," Shane said as he leaned back on his haunches, "wiped down his shoes and cleaned up his clothes."

"Why the hell would they do that?" Dale asked.

"Cleaning up evidence that that doesn't belong on the body." Shane removed his hat and ran a hand over his dark hair, feeling the stiff crackle of pomade under his fingertips. "His pockets are empty and he doesn't have a jacket. How'd we get his ID?"

"It was lying on the ground next to him," Dale said wryly.

Shane stood and turned to his boss in surprise. "You're shitting me."

Dale shook his head and held out a battered leather wallet. Shane let it drop into his hand. Peeling it open he found nothing more than ten dollars cash and a wrinkled driver's license.

"They wanted us to know who he was," Dale said. Shane nodded; he'd been thinking the same.

"Hey Dale!" Bassett was calling from the corner, waving his notebook to get his attention. The night watchman was leaning over, heaving his guts onto the floor, the corpse on the ground apparently too much. He took advantage of Dale's momentary distraction and deftly snatched the tenner out of the wallet, stuffing the bill into his coat pocket before closing the flap and shoving it back into Dale's hand.

"Photo boys been by yet?"

"They're on their way," Dale said.

Shane nodded and took another long look at dead Ed. _Is this all a man comes down to? A corpse and an empty wallet? Fuck me, I need a drink._ He shook his head, attempting to banish the morbid thoughts. Now was not the time to get philosophical.

"What else do we know about him?"

"Almost nothing," Dale said. "Whoever Eddy P. here was, he was real small fish."

"So we don't think it's Greene?" Shane whispered this, knowing there were ears around who'd report the first hint of the name back to the old man himself.

"_Of course_ it's Greene," Dale whispered back, leaning close. "Setup's too perfect to be anybody else. We'll never prove it, though."

"Maybe, maybe not." Shane tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at the glint of metal. "This one's married."

"_What?!_" Dale looked surprised; apparently, he'd missed it too. Shane crouched down by the body and pulled out his trusty pencil again, using it as a lever to work the hand out from under the head and hold it in the air. The gold band gleamed dully from the rust colored stains, something Shane had missed on his first inspection.

"Looks like we have a stop to make," Dale said sadly.

"Christ," Shane mumbled. "I hate this part." He dropped the hand and stepped back from the corpse, producing a handkerchief to wipe down his pencil before shoving both back into the depths of his trench coat.

"Is there any part to like?" Dale asked archly.

_The thrill of the chase, of danger creeping down your spine and filling you up until you can't breathe from the excitement..._

"Nah," Shane sighed. "You coming?"

"And leave you to talk to the poor woman alone?" Dale smirked. "You'd be trying to get under her skirt before she even realizes she's a widow."

"Hey," Shane protested. "That only happened once."

Dale gave him a look and Shane tried not to smile.

"Twice."

"Shane..." Dale said warningly.

"Fine, I'll behave."

Dale quickly gathered the other officers who had been milling about, giving out swift orders. Shane tipped his hat to the stiff.

"So long, small fish," he said quietly.

He knew in his bones that this was Greene's work. To the world, Hershel Greene was the perfect citizen: a businessman, a family man, devoutly Catholic and upstanding citizen of their community. For all its metropolis feel, Atlanta was smaller than people realized and Shane had had enough dealings with the dirtier side of town to hear rumors about the Irish businessman's true workings. Rumor had so far proved to be just that, though: rumor. Dale's mission for years had been to bring Greene to his knees, a mission he'd been trying to coerce Shane into joining for the better part of a year now. He'd hedged, though, as much as he could. Sticking to the straight and narrow path was not something Shane was skilled at, and chasing Greene would bring him too close to the past he'd worked hard to forget.

_Now Rick? Rick wouldn't have hesitated to chase Greene with everything he had._

Shane cringed as he stepped outside and leaned against the wall. His former partner, his _first_ partner, was not something he needed to be thinking of right now. He pushed thoughts of Rick Grimes to the back of his mind as Dale stepped outside, putting his captain's hat on his head.

"You're driving," Dale said with a grim expression. _Christ, I really need a damn drink._

No, he couldn't think of the past, or of Rick. Not now. There was a new case to consider instead: dead Ed, his killers, and a new widow to console and question.

Shane hoped they got to Peletier's wife before anyone else did.


	3. The Merry Widow

_**A/N:** Hello, my lovelies! Here are go again. Many thanks to im0rca for her magnificent beta skills and to madcorvus for the most amazing graphics I've ever seen to go along with this tale. But mostly, thanks to everyone who has given us a review on this tale of ours. I need the encouragement!_

_Now, let's meet Carol, shall we? ;) The plot thickens!_

* * *

The carpet was old fashioned, thick, intricately patterned and faded with the passage of too many afternoons caught in the haze of the Georgia sun; a beast of a rug that no matter how much you scrubbed and beat at it, it never seemed to really get clean.

Carol had always hated the damn thing.

She sat perched on the edge of one of the living room's overstuffed armchairs, clad in nothing more than her threadbare nightgown and robe, her auburn hair a free falling mess of curls around her shoulders as she avoided the unblinking stares of the policemen sitting on her sofa. The silence stretched out like taffy around them as they gave her a minute to process the news.

Ed was dead. Carol fiddled with a loose thread on the edge of the hated rug, curling it around her big toe as the words spun around and around in her head.

Ed was _dead_.

She realized the coppers were waiting on her to say something.

"When did this happen?" Carol finally asked.

"Earlier tonight," one answered. Carol raised her eyes from the rug and studied the two men. One older, dressed in the sharp lines of a captain's uniform, had a kind face and was scrutinizing her with what seemed to be almost genuine compassion. The younger one was garbed in a rumpled suit and worn trench coat that was still damp from the rain. He worried a battered fedora in his hands as he stared at her through dark eyes. He was harder to read and it unnerved Carol. She was naturally observant, good at reading people; had to be, to judge Ed's moods and prepare herself for the swing of his fist. _Until now_.

"What happened, Officer...?" She trailed off, not remembering either of their names at the moment.

"Detective," the younger one replied gently. "Detective Shane Walsh and this is Lieutenant Dale Horvath."

"Thank you," Carol said. "What happened to him?" That was good, something any normal woman would ask in her situation. Her mind twitched briefly to her other visitor before she refocused her efforts on the men in front of her.

"Ma'am, we can't go into a whole lot of detail just yet," Lieutenant Horvath said. "There are still a lot of things we are trying to work out-"

_Oh._

"He was murdered," she said softly.

The men exchanged a glance with each other, surprised. _Damn. That explains a lot._

"Yes," Walsh replied shortly, earning a glare from his supervising officer. Walsh ignored it, fixing his unblinking gaze at her and Carol remembered he'd introduced himself as _detective_. She clenched the soft cotton of her robe with tense fingers and tried to breathe, wondering just how talented a detective he was.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Peletier," Lt. Horvath said, not unkindly. "May I use your phone?"

Carol shook her head and rubbed her hand across her face, her mind spinning in a hundred different directions.

"Of course," she said. "There is one upst - in the parlor." _Careful, girl. Don't let them upstairs!_ "It's a coin operation one, I'm afraid." She tried to appear nonchalant while working to calm the frantic stuttering of her heart at her near mistake.

"That's all right," the lieutenant answered. "I'll just be a moment. _Shane_." Carol didn't miss the quick gesture the officer gave to the detective as he stepped into the hall, leaving her alone with Walsh. For a moment, there was no sound between them but the ticking of the clock that sat on the mantle over the fireplace.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he finally said. Carol just nodded, back to curling her toes around the fraying edges of the rug. "Mind if I pour myself a drink?" She looked up; Walsh was eyeing the wet bar on the far side of the room. She nodded again, not trusting herself to speak. She listened to the clink of glassware on the wooden bar, the gush of liquid being poured before a tumbler of amber liquid was thrust into her vision. She looked up, confused.

"I can't... I'm not supposed to..." she stuttered. "Ed..."

Ed was _dead_. She wouldn't get hit for taking a drink of his precious liquor, not now. Carol bit her lip to hide the smile that threatened to spread across her face and took the glass with a shaking hand. The whiskey burned, unfamiliar, and she choked as it slid down her throat. She felt Walsh's hand on her shoulder, the warmth from his palm seeping through the thin fabric she wore as he steadied her while she coughed. It took her a moment to catch her breath.

"Thank you," she said.

"First drink?" Walsh asked as he sauntered back over to the sofa.

"First in a long time," Carol replied softly. She hadn't had a drink since her wedding night. A proper wife didn't drink, as far as Ed was concerned. The back of his hand had made that abundantly clear to her.

"Sip it, don't gulp." He was almost smiling at her. "Let it rest on your tongue a minute before you swallow." He nodded at her encouragingly and Carol took another cautious sip, following his instructions. The taste of whiskey on her tongue made her skin tingle and it went down easier this time, filling her with warmth that pooled low in her belly. "Better?"

"Much, thank you," Carol said. She spun the drink in her hand, watching the alcohol swish around in the glass.

"I hate to ask this right now, but did your husband have any reason to be down at the warehouse district tonight?" He was watching her again.

"Not that I'm aware of," she answered honestly.

That seemed to be all he wanted to ask for the moment and he settled back into the couch, taking a long slurp from his own glass as he fixed his gaze on her. She felt her toes curl of their own accord, burying themselves in the threads of the rug under her feet. She felt the hint of dust grit against her skin. _I really hate this thing._

"Why do you keep staring at me?" she blurted out suddenly. Walsh cocked an eyebrow at her and lowered his drink.

"I suppose I'm waiting for you to start crying," he said archly.

"Oh." Because any other woman confronted with news of her husband's murder would be hysterical by now._ Dammit, Carol._ She was saved from having to come up with a respectable answer by the return of Lt. Horvath, coming to a stop just inside the archway that led to the hall with a regretful look on his face.

"We need you to come down to the station," he said.

"May I ask why?" _Breathe, old girl. Just breathe._

"We have some questions," Horvath answered. "And we're going to need you to confirm his identity."

"Don't you have his ID already?" Carol asked.

"Just papers," Walsh said.

"I need to see his face," Carol realized aloud. _Cooperate. Play your role._ "What time do you want me?"

"Actually, you need to come with us now, Mrs. Peletier," Lt. Horvath said firmly.

_Oh, God._ Her heart sank and without a word she drained her glass, ignoring the smirk of surprise and approval on Walsh's face as she stood and clutched her robe to her.

"Well, then. If you gentlemen will give me a moment to dress?"

Walsh stood as he and Horvath both murmured their agreement. Carol left them in her living room as calmly as she could, making it to the top of the stairs before anxiety caught up with her. She leaned against the wall, her pulse thrumming in her ears. She'd known the minute her first visitor had arrived, banging on the front door and pulling her from sleep, that something was terribly, horribly wrong. She'd barely had a chance to comprehend the instructions he'd delivered in a cold voice, without explanation, before new knocks at her door had announced the arrival of the police. They'd told her what the other visitor hadn't. _Ed was dead. Murdered._

Laughter bubbled out of her without thought and Carol clamped her hands over her mouth, hoping the men in her house tonight hadn't heard that. _She was free_. Joy burst in a silent explosion inside of her, making her body tremble from the force of it. Ed would never touch her again. She supposed it was a sin to celebrate the murder of her husband; if it was, this was sin she would embrace with open arms. _Later_. Thoughts of her third guest filtered through her haze of happiness, sobering her quicker than a bucket of water dumped on a drunk. Her celebration would have to wait. Time was ticking.

Carol made her way down the long hallway past door after door of empty rooms. The boardinghouse hadn't had lodgers in a while, rumors of Ed's temper doing more to hamper the business even than his mismanagement of their limited funds. She moved on light feet to the master bedroom at the end of the hall, slipping inside and turning to carefully close the door, keeping her back to the hulking figure that stood in the shadows by her bed.

"Well?" Merle Dixon's voice was an icy drawl that sent skitters of frission down her spine. She knew instinctively that, for all the horrors she'd experienced at Ed's hand, this Merle Dixon could deliver far worse. This man was _dangerous_, the kind of dangerous she'd only read about in novels.

"My husband is dead," Carol answered softly, still facing the door.

"So I hear." He sounded almost amused.

"The police want me to go to the station with them." She kept her voice low as she turned to face him, watching the smoke from his cigarette curl around him like a veil.

"Then you should get a move on, doll." He gestured her towards her closet. She hesitated when Dixon made no effort to move or turn around.

"You're going to watch me change?"

With a dramatic sigh, Dixon turned to gaze out the window, taking a long drag from his cigarette. Carol shifted on her feet, intensely anxious about having this unnverving man, whom she'd known less than an hour , in the room with her while she changed. She could see the faint outline of his gun pressed against the inside of his coat as he smoked and thought for a brief moment she might faint.

"Hurry up," Dixon growled. "They won't wait down there forever."

Her feet finally obeyed and now Carol moved fast, pulling undergarments from the heavy oak dresser and tossing her stockings onto the bed before she moved to the closet. She pulled the door open, casting a quick look at Dixon to make sure he wasn't looking before shedding her robe and nightgown. She threw her things on as quickly as she could, grabbing a dress at random before snatching her one pair of good day heels from the floor. She turned and jumped; Dixon had moved to stand by the end of her bed and was staring at her with a sly look on his face. _He watched me_. Her skin crawled at the thought.

"Tick, tock."

She loathed him already, but he was right; she had to move fast. Carol swallowed her nerves and sat on the edge of the bed to roll on her stockings with shaking hands. She finished one leg and was clipping her stocking to the suspender of her garter when thick fingers skimmed across the warm skin of her upper thigh. Carol didn't think as she moved faster than she could blink, slapping Dixon's hand away and leaping to her feet.

_Oh no nononono_. Carol's breath caught in her throat as she eyed the giant of a man standing less than a foot from her, her body frozen in anticipation of the blow that was sure to come now. Dixon's eyes dropped to her stockinged feet and trailed slowly up her body before meeting her anxious gaze with a smirk. _Was that approval?_

"Good girl," he murmured. "You're stronger than I thought, darlin'."

"You're not going to hit me?" Carol asked before she could stop herself. She flushed with shame at the show of weakness, but refused to let her eyes drop from his. Any hint of humor fell from Dixon's expression as he looked back at her.

"No." He stepped back, giving her room to breath again. "Hurry up, doll. I figure you've got less than a minute now before the flatfoots come lookin' for ya." _Oh god, there are policemen downstairs_. Before the next thought could even fully form in her head, Dixon spoke again.

"We both know I'll do a lot worse if you mention me to those dicks downstairs."

_Right._ She stuffed her feet in her shoes and moved to her dressing table, quickly rolling and pinning her hair back as Dixon continued talking.

"You remember what I said?"

"Don't say anything to anyone. You were never here, this never happened. Play my role and I won't get hurt," Carol replied as she dusted her face with a light sprinkle of powder. "I still don't understand though-"

"That comes later." Dixon interrupted her with a wave of his hand, stubbing out his cigarette in Ed's ashtray on the bedside table. "Go with the coppers now. Come home and someone will be in touch with more instructions."

Carol swept up her coat and purse, turning to face Merle Dixon one more time. She had to ask; she had to know before she went downstairs to face her husband's cold corpse.

"What did Ed get me into?"

Merle Dixon gave a chuckle, his pearly white teeth gleaming in a shark's grin she was sure would haunt her nightmares in the days to come.

"Doll, you have no idea."


	4. Two Swoons

_**A/N: **A couple of you have expressed your concerns. Really, truly, just bear with me. This is going to be a long, slow burn, but I promise it'll __be worth the wait. Also, this chapter you'll start to notice that we've tinkered with things a bit. It's an experiment. Stick with me & I promise I won't hurt you (much - it's ME)._

_This chapter takes a lot of inspiration from 'The Godfather', 'Road to Perdition' and just a little 'Touch of Evil'. If you haven't watched any of these movies, I highly suggest you go do so. Right now. Well, finish reading this & leave me a review first, but then GO WATCH THEM! All 3 have a heavy hand in influencing the whole arc of this story I'm weaving._

_**Disclaimer:** Still don't own squat from 'The Walking Dead' or it's characters, except this idea, and the setting and… ok, I own a bit. Haha!_

* * *

**Chapter 4: Two Swoons**

Daryl Dixon pulled on his collar before twisting the knot of his tie, loosening it just enough for him to breathe easier. He took a swig from the tall stein of beer he kept clenched in his hand, listening to the growing rumble wafting up from the main floor as more people arrived. He hated dealing with days like today, but he knew it was a necessary part of the show: Hershel Greene, well-to-do farmer, businessman and real estate magnate, staunch Catholic, pillar of the high society of Atlanta, friend to one and all. He was even willing to finance and host a wake for the families of his fellow church goers. Downstairs in the parlor was the stiff holed up in a fine wooden kimono, bought and paid for on the spot by none other than Hershel Greene himself. The grieving widow would be along shortly, cloaked in black, all simpering tears and snot-soaked handkerchiefs, not knowing that the good and kindly Mr. Greene from church was the very person who had ordered the death of her poor husband, though lesser hands had actually orchestrated the deed itself. Greene did enjoy thumbing his nose at fate. Daryl sipped his beer, swishing the amber liquid around in his glass. It was sharp with the tang of irony.

He shouldn't be bitter. Daryl knew his place and knew that of all the choices he'd made, following Merle into this life was one of the easier ones. It was a good living, hard work but great perks. They made being one of Greene's top enforcers made everything almost worth it. He had money, he had style, security, moreso than anything he'd ever had in the shithole he'd left behind.

Thom, Jackson and Randall sat around the small table, cards in hand as they squeezed in a few quick rounds of poker before the widow arrived. No cigs today though; the missus would have twitched a conniption if she'd caught them smoking upstairs. Daryl sighed and checked his watch;. His brother was locked up with the old man himself and had been for hours, leaving the setup of the wake in the hands of the staff at mercy of the shrill tones of Lori Greene. There were reasons they'd taken to calling her The Banshee when the old man wasn't around.

It had already been a long day, and the wake hadn't even started yet.

"How much fuckin' longer we gotta wait?"

Daryl looked up at the card table. Jackson Lachtrie was well on his way to being drunk off his feet. Tall, dark haired with a permanently smug expression, Jackson was an up and comer in the business, a real go-getter. He'd made his bones two years before, working his way through a rival gambling ring and bringing the lucrative operation under Greene's thumb in a matter of weeks. It was no secret he'd been eyeing Merle's job ever since. Daryl wondered how much longer they'd have to wait before they came to blows.

"This broad better hurry her ass up," Jackson muttered. "Let's get this goddamn show on the road. I'm fuckin' hungry."

"Yeah, fuckin' hungry," Randall echoed. Fucking Randall was a fucking fat-head. He'd yet to make his mark and seemed content to be nothing more than Jackson's parrot. _Waste of damn space._

"You're always hungry. Shut the fuck up and deal." Thom Crowley was the most senior among them. He'd been with Greene even longer than Daryl had. Hell, he almost out-ranked Merle. He could have, too, if he'd had a bit more ambition to him. Thom had once told Daryl that Merle was welcome to the drama and the dick-swinging required to be number two. 'Thing with hanging back? None of the hassles with nearly all the same gravy,' he'd said. Randall was stupid, Jackson an obnoxious prick, but Thom... Thom was a man you didn't cross. Despite that, Daryl almost _liked_ Thom; they worked well together, spending most jobs in comfortable silence, focused on the deal at hand.

"I fuckin' hate wakes," Jackson muttered. "Women fuckin' wailing everywhere, ever'body drunk offa their asses, not near enough booze, and too much damn casserole."

"Damn casserole," Randall agreed.

"Fuckin' useless," Jackson continued. "Doin' alla this for Edgar fuckin' Peletier when god knows what the slimy trai-"

"Shut your yappin'," Daryl barked.

He'd turned his eye to the door from the hall and found that they had company. Tall, with a gorgeous set of gams hidden behind smoky stockings, her auburn hair curled and pinned neatly beneath her hat, and behind the fine mesh of the black mourner's veil Daryl caught a glimpse of the clearest, bluest eyes he'd ever seen. A pretty piece, to be sure. Certainly a mourner, but too clear eyed to be the widow or a family member. Maybe a friend of The Banshee's. She was obviously looking for something or someone.

"Well, hello beautiful." Jackson was definitely drunk, eyeing the lady who stood uncertainly in the doorway. "Care to join our little soiree? I could use a little kiss for luck, if you know what I mean, doll." He taped his cheek, giving the woman a wink. Daryl snorted into his drink, but before he could say anything further the hulking figure of his big brother towered behind Jackson.

"Enough," Merle said shortly. Jackson grimaced but fell silent, unwilling to go at it with Merle in front of witnesses. Merle turned his glare on each of them in turn, clearly unhappy, before settling his eye on the dame. "Mrs. Peletier."

_Fuck me running. She's the widow after all._ Daryl straightened up, fixing his tie and his hair with the same gesture, giving the lady a respectful nod. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the gamblers had leapt to their feet, guilty looks cast across all of their faces.

"Mr. Dixon," Mrs. Peletier replied. Daryl had known little of Ed Peletier before the order to knock him off and he knew nothing about his wife. The woman before him was looking back at his brother with a nervous expression - smart, given who she was talking to. She seemed pretty calm otherwise, unexpected for a widow.

"I'm sorry about these yahoos. They forget how to act decent in front of a real lady. Come right this way," Merle said. Daryl caught a whiff of perfume as she passed by him. "Mrs. Greene is waitin' for you." He ushered her through the far door before turning an amused face back to Daryl.

"Get them downstairs," he hissed. "Come on, Daryl."

Daryl nodded and drained the last of his drink, herding the gang downstairs as they fixed their jackets, and wondering just how the new widow had taken the "business proposal" from his brother.

* * *

The wake had gone well so far. People paid their respects to the corpse laid out in grand measure in the parlor before threading through the rest of the house to imbibe enough food and drink to sink the Titanic and talked about a man they hardly knew. Daryl had made his rounds, keeping an eye out for anything that would disturb the peace. So far, everyone had played their roles to perfection. He'd caught glimpses of the Widow Peletier, usually clamped tightly in the grip of The Banshee and surrounded by a gaggle of womenfolk, all of whom looked more upset than the widow herself.

_*Clink*Clink*Clink*_

The tapping of silver on crystal rang out over the dull roar of conversation, bringing everyone's attention to the elegantly dressed, genteel man who stood in front of the fireplace, a drink in one hand and the knob of an aged ornate shillelagh clasped in the other. The old man had the stately Irish gentleman act down pat.

"_Dia 's Muire dhuit_," Hershel Greene said, all warmth and dignity. "The family and I want to welcome you all of you to our home. It's good to see so many friends gathered together for support in this house on such as day as this. I had this speech prepared, but it would be dishonest of me to say that I knew Ed well. But, lose one of us, it hurts us all."

A murmur of agreement ran through the crowd as Daryl made his way towards the front to take his place. He could see Merle and Thom shadowing his movements along either side of the room; Jackson and Randall would cover the back.

"I tell you what I do remember though, and maybe Carol will remember this as well," Hershel turned and acknowledged the solemn figure of Carol Peletier standing off to the side with the Greene family. Daryl shifted, keeping her in his gaze as Greene continued his speech. "I remember Ed on the high school football team. Championship game, down six points, ten seconds left to play, five yards to go... Ed tackles his own quarterback!"

The crowd gave the obligatory laugh, cheering at the memory of a man Daryl could bet a dollar almost none of them had known.

"Mistakes," Hershel said, his voice more solemn than before. "We all make 'em, God knows." Hershel lifted his glass, waiting until everyone in the crowd had raised their own in turn. "Let's drink to Ed's honor. Let's drink him to God, and hope that he gets to Heaven... at least an hour before the Devil finds out he's dead."

Chants of _hear, hear_ ran through the crowd as everyone drank, toasting the soul of Edgar Peletier to the afterlife. Daryl swallowed his shot of whiskey in one gulp. Sucker. He could see Greene scanning the room, making sure everyone was in place, before nodding and holding a hand out to the woman at his left.

"Well now," Hershel said, "I'd like to have Mrs. Peletier come say a few words. Words that, I'll wager, have a bit more poetry than mine. Carol?"

* * *

The room spun for a moment, the sound fading out, behind the white noise cascading through her ears and Carol wondered for half a minute if she was going to faint. Maybe it's the drink. She'd had more alcohol in the past three days than she'd had in twenty years. Something was squeezing her arm so tight it was starting to go numb. She focused on that for a moment, letting the rush in her head settle itself.

_Too much too much too much._

She didn't have the stomach to say words over her husband's body, laid out in more splendor than he'd ever experienced in life. The morgue had been bad enough.

_ The air inside was cold and sour, enveloping her like a cloud as she stepped in, trying not to shudder. She couldn't bring herself to acknowledge the solemn f figure in the white coat who greeted the detectives, simply following as he led them past the row of sheet-covered figures spread out on long tables, thick white tags tied with string around pale toes that dangled out the end of each sheet. She thought she might vomit._

_ They stopped near the end of the line. She recognized the figure cloaked in white cloth, could discern every lump and knob of the body she'd thoroughly detested with every fiber of her being for so long. Recognition did not bring her any calm, though, and when the sheet was lifted to show her the chalk white of Ed's face, the shock of it was enough to set the world spinning. The stench of death filled her nose and she felt her legs give out, the tension of the past hours finally too much. An iron band wrapped around her stomach, pulling her back against something hard and warm. Detective Walsh had her in his strong grip, rescuing her from the floor._

_ "That's him," she heard herself breathe. "That's Ed."_

_ "Get her out of here."_

_ Her feet dragged and the world swam before gravity gave way and she was floating through the air. The dark was gone with a bang and Carol sucked in huge lungfuls of the fresh air, trying to purge her body of foul mist that seemed to cling to every pore of her skin._

_ "Easy." Walsh set her on the concrete stairs that led up to the street, pulling her head into the curve of his broad shoulder, his arm curled around her back. "Easy, now."_

_ "God, the-the smell. I couldn't-"_

_ "Shhh, it's all right." His voice was low and soothing in her ear as she tried to remember the difference between inhaling and exhaling. Long minutes passed with his hand on her back, fingers tapping out a slow rhythm her breath finally matched as her vision steadied and became clear._

_ "I am so sorry." Carol flushed with embarrassment at her behavior._

_ "I know this is hard for you," Walsh replied. "You don't need to apologize."_

_ Right. Grieving widow. Her near fainting spell probably worked out in her favor, then. She turned her head, catching the faint spice of cologne and realized she was still leaning against the detective. Carol pulled herself upright, yanking down the hem of her navy dress, just in time for Lt. Horvath to peek his head out the door at them. The man had impeccable timing._

_ "Everybody all right?" he asked._

_ Carol leapt to her feet, wanting nothing more than to flee the cold horrors of this place._

_ "Let's go."_

This was the same feeling as she'd had then, and Carol fought it, clenching her fingers around the hands holding her arm. She looked up into the sweetly concerned face of Lori Greene, nee Grimes. Everyone in town knew her story: unhappily married to a former policeman turned reporter, she'd left her old life and essentially thrown herself at the feet of Hershel Greene. She'd worked as a nursemaid for his ailing wife until the older woman passed. It had been less than the normal year of mourning when word came out that Lori had married Hershel Greene in a private ceremony. The rumors were that she was unhappily wed but happy enough to spend her new husband's money on her daily shopping trips. Carol had seen the Greenes at Mass, always in their designated pew near the altar and decked out in the finest threads money could buy. Although they had rarely spoken before today, Carol found herself grateful for Lori's presence just now.

"You gonna make it?" the other woman whispered to her. Carol nodded once, then again as she focused on making sure her legs didn't give out. She gave Lori's hands a squeeze before prying them off of her arm and moving to take her place next to the intimidating figure of Hershel Greene.

Carol swallowed as she looked out on the crowd. She didn't know half of the people here. _A speech. What in God's name am I supposed to say about Ed?_

"My husband Ed... was not wise." _Now there's the understatement of the decade._ "He wasn't gentle, either... and with a skin full of liquor in him he was a pain in the ass." She caught a glimpse of Merle Dixon, leaning against the wall and watching her with the same smirk he'd given her days ago in her bedroom. _Just how strong are you?_

"Frankly, he was a pain in the ass without the liquor too," Carol said, surprising herself. A real laugh rolled through the crowd and Carol had to resist rolling her eyes at the look of astonishment on people's faces. _Oh, screw this nonsense._ Her legs were steady under her now and she straightened up, standing taller before the scrutiny of these strangers. Right in the front there was one of the rough men who had been upstairs, the younger one who had been off drinking alone at the bar. With his sandy hair and blue eyes, he was almost handsome, would have been more if Carol hadn't known who he worked for. He was staring at her with a curious expression, like he was trying to figure her out and was confused that she wasn't behaving how she should. _Good._

"I want to say thank you to our generous host," Carol said. "Where would this town be without Hershel Greene?" She saw the man in front of her cough out a surprised laugh and duck his head to the floor to avoid being noticed. Ignoring the titters and shocked gasps from the crowd at her daring, Carol turned and inclined her head graciously at Mr. Greene, who raised his hand to the audience and bowed his head in humble acknowledgement of her praise, before turning and walking out of the room.

* * *

The beat from the bodhrán thumped through the room, making the floor shake as Daryl made his way over to where Merle lounged against the oak paneled wall, nursing a drink from his silver flask. Merle never drank alcohol in public except what came from that flask of his. Daryl wasn't even sure where he'd lifted it from. Merle crooked a finger at him and pulled him further into a corner to avoid being overheard. _Like anyone could hear us with the band going now._ The dancing was well underway, the party officially started now that the speeches were done, and the squeals from the accordian mingled with bagpipes, tin whistle and the ever present thump of the drum as the crowd lined up and stomped in time with the rhythm.

"She's a spitfire, ain't she?" Daryl asked amused.

"'Where would this town be without Hershel Greene?'" Merle intoned somberly. "Fuck yeah, she's a spitfire. The Banshee near about fainted. Thought the old man was gonna give it to her right there."

"So what's the deal?" Daryl asked. "You were in with the old man a while."

"He's got a business proposition for ol' Widow Peletier," Merle replied.

"Ed was in that deep?" Daryl was surprised.

"Hell no," Merle scoffed. "Ed was small fish. The dame comes in handy though, for some other shit."

"Blake?"

Merle just nodded. _Well, shit._ Phillip Blake was proving to be a bigger pain in the ass than any of them had figured.

"What the hell does Carol Peletier have to do with Phillip Blake?"

"Now, don't you worry, little brother." Merle clamped a beefy paw down on Daryl's shoulder. "The skirt ain't gonna land herself in harm's way, so long as she does what we tell her to."

"And what is that?" Daryl asked warily. Men he could handle, but doing something that put a woman in harm's way was beyond his realm of comfort. Merle was watching him with a twinkle in his eye.

"Let's go upstairs and find out."

* * *

**_A/N:_** '_Dia 's Muire dhuit' means "God and Mary go with you" in Irish Gaelic._


End file.
